


an hour or so

by bangandawhimper



Series: flagrantly twisting maruki’s palace for my own devious ends [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Choking, Exhibitionism, Foursome, M/M, Selfcest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27064891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangandawhimper/pseuds/bangandawhimper
Summary: When Akira steps into this room the first thing he notices is the one thing that’s different. Instead of the wordsFORFEITabove the door, there’s a countdown.01:00:00One hour. One hour for Akira to confront his deepest desire. And the rest of his life to justify to himself why he resisted it.[Written for day 17 of Kinktober 2020]
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: flagrantly twisting maruki’s palace for my own devious ends [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975315
Comments: 19
Kudos: 248





	an hour or so

**Author's Note:**

> this is kind of a sequel to [accept or forfeit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26870800) but you don’t have to read that one if you don’t want to
> 
> (you should, though)

Takuto Maruki must be a masochist.

Akira stares in carefully concealed despair at yet another set of elevators, yet another Shadow waiting in front of them.

It’s a brand new day. They’ve only just begun today’s infiltration. Akira hasn’t even fought anything yet, hasn’t even stolen anything yet, and this is how it starts. Maruki has to be a masochist—why else would he place trial after stupid trial in front of them knowing the Phantom Thieves would, as they always do, get past them victorious? Even Akira is tired of this.

He’s so tired of this.

  
  
  


_“But why are you the one who has to fix it, Akira-kun?” the Shadow-fake-copy of his mother asked him, sweet and patient in a way she never was in reality._

_“Because,” Akira replied, half-listening._

_The door to the outside, his freedom from this small bright room, was still red. Because of course it was. Because this was hell._

  
  
  


These elevators are just like the ones they faced yesterday before they had to end their infiltration early due to exhaustion, low team morale, and general mental anguish. The colors and symbols corresponding to each member of their party, lined up in a row, ready to take them who knows where.

Probably hell again.

First they had to prove their idea of happiness aligned with Maruki’s. Then they had to prove they were capable of accepting some flaw in themselves that was, in Maruki’s extremely uninformed words, “ _holding them back from being happy._ ”

Akira can’t fathom what else his old friend’s nightmare of a Palace could have cooked up to stop them this time, but judging by the looks on the brainier members of the Phantom Thieves… it won’t be anything good.

  
  
  


_The Shadow shape-shifted into his father, frowned in disappointment. “Stop joking around. That’s not an answer.”_

_Morphed back into his mother. “Why won’t you talk to us?”_

_“I am talking to you,” Akira said for the thousandth time._

_“Then answer the question.”_

_The door was still red._

  
  


“So I really am going to see my mom this time,” Futaba whispers.

They’re all huddled together now, preparing for what the Shadow promised was the final trial before they would be allowed into what it called _The Garden_.

“This… this will be good,” Makoto offers shakily. “We can confront what we want one final time, but we’ll have our wits about us. It’ll be like… closure.” She’s quiet for a little while, fiddling with her gloves. “This will be good,” she mumbles, repeats to herself.

The rest of the group seems equally distressed. Makes sense, considering how many dead family members are about to be resurrected for a second time. Even Akechi is pacing quietly. Off a little ways from the rest of the group, like he always is.

“Crow—”

“Don’t talk to me, Joker,” Akechi snaps at him immediately, as if he was expecting the question. He definitely was. “I know exactly what’s waiting for me in that room.”

  
  
  


_“Because… someone has to,” Akira offered through gritted teeth. He stared down at a spot on the pristine white floor, a little scuff from his shoe, and prayed that was answer enough._

_“Don’t give me that hero bullshit,” Goro Akechi’s voice said. Akira’s head lurched up to meet his gaze—as piercing and intelligent as the real thing. “I want the truth.”_

_And something inside him snapped._

_“Because of you!” Akira shouted. “Because you fucked it all up—because I made you a promise to fix the world and then you died!”_

_“I didn’t die,” Akechi said._

_“Are—” the words caught in Akira’s throat, habit and fear tamping them down._

  
  
  


Akira steps into his elevator.

 _Don’t lose sight of what we all already decided_ , Morgana had said. _Fixing reality is more important than anything Maruki can offer us._

The doors open to another small white room with an exit on the opposite side—just the same as the last trial. Akira walks to the center, stands patiently, waits for the ring of light to encompass him, scan him. Just the same as the last trial.

Instead of the words _FORFEIT_ above the door, there’s a countdown. One hour. One hour to confront his deepest desire. And the rest of his life to justify to himself why he resisted it.

For a moment, while he waits, Akira is envious of the other Thieves. They’ve already been through this, in a way. They know what they’ll be facing. Even Akechi was confident in what he’d find… maybe his revenge, his fame, his family. He’d lost a lot, had a lot to wish for.

But Akira doesn’t even know what his own wish would be.

Then the computer finishes scanning him, the room shifts and changes, and a single figure takes shape, and Akira realizes—oh. Ah.

He might actually be very stupid.

A Goro Akechi stands in front of him, because of course he does. Identical in every way to the one who, just a few minutes earlier, walked into the elevator next to Akira with all the affectation of a man marching to the gallows.

A bed has appeared to Akira’s left. Because of course it has.

“My my, Kurusu-kun,” Akechi smirks, bats his eyelashes under his mask. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Akira fervently hopes, prays to literally anything, that no one ever ever ever finds out that _this_ is his wish.

Especially not Goro Akechi.

“Um,” Akira says.

Akechi—Akira can’t keep calling him Akechi in his head, has to remember he’s not the real Akechi. Decides to call him Crow, because… because he’s used to the name representing a fake. And he’s in his Crow outfit. And Akira is not very creative.

Anyway, Crow is coming closer to him now.

Akira thinks about taking a step back. Stands his ground instead. After all, this isn’t the real Akechi. (The real Akechi would want him to stand his ground.)

The timer on the door counts down from 1:00:00 to 00:59:59.

“I’m not sure if I should be insulted or flattered,” Crow says, stalking around Akira now, circling him like a… vulture. “Let’s try: flattered by the bed, insulted that you’ve chosen me out of all your little sycophants. Or should that perhaps be the other way around? What do you think, Akira?”

Crow is awfully close and Akira’s brain is having a hard time processing whatever the hell nonsense he’s saying. “What do you want?” he asks instead of engaging.

“I want what you want,” Crow answers easily.

“Then you’re not Akechi,” Akira says. “And I don’t want you.”

Crow finally comes to a stop directly in front of him. Takes off his helmet, shakes out his hair in an annoyingly appealing way. Gives Akira a look that is so perfectly Akechi.

“Don’t get me wrong, Joker—I know I’m not the real deal. Your precious little ‘ _Detective Prince_ ’ is still in the room next door. Frankly, I’m insulted that you’d assume I could be fooled into thinking anything else.”

Oh. Okay. Akira wonders if the fake people his friends are confronting in their rooms are this self-aware or mean.

Wait—what does that say about Akira?

And then Crow pokes him in the chest with the point of one of his sharp claws and that line of thought stops immediately. “I’m a version of Goro Akechi that can make you happy,” Crow murmurs. He drags his finger slowly up Akira’s chest, collarbone, throat, to rest under his chin. “And look at you—a good, sweet, _nice_ boy who didn’t even alter me that much to make it happen.”

“Can I leave?” Akira asks, embarrassingly raspy.

Crow smiles. “No.”

Akira swallows. The movement makes Crow’s claw dig a little further into the soft skin under his chin. Crow just keeps staring at him, like he’s trying to hypnotize Akira. And Akira is pretty sure it’s working.

The other room, the one from yesterday, had a condition to leave… he can’t seem to remember. He can’t remember much of what he was told about this room either. His brain is a little fuzzy around the edges, for some reason.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Crow chuckles. Smiling and laughing—he seems so happy. He releases Akira’s chin, rests his hand on Akira’s hip instead, firm and solid and completely sure of himself.

Touching Akira.

Akira can’t recall the last time Akechi touched him.

  
  
  


_“Crow?” Akira asked quietly. He hesitated, then placed a hand on Akechi’s shoulder. “Are you—”_

_Akechi flinched, smacked Akira away with so much urgency and force that one of his claws scratched his arm through the sleeve of his jacket._

_“Don’t touch me!” he cried, miserable and cracked like Akira had burned him._

  
  
  


Crows thumb rubs a gentle arc, back and forth, on Akira’s waist. “What do you want to do?” he murmurs.

His face is close, already so close. His maroon eyes flicker down to Akira’s lips and Akira can’t help but mirror the movement, and Akira is actually freaking out a little bit because this is actually happening—is happening so fast, so suddenly. He should have gotten at least a few days' warning (a few weeks, few months) that today is the day he kisses Goro Akechi.

_Except this isn’t Goro Akechi._

“W-wait,” Akira croaks out. “You’re not him.”

“Yes, we already covered that,” Crow says. Another sharp hand snakes around the back of Akira’s neck.

“I don’t—” Akira swallows. He’s breathing a little hard isn’t he? “I—what are you doing?”

“I’m going to kiss you because that’s what you want.” One of Crow’s hands—there are so many, Akira can’t seem to keep track—curves around Akira’s hips and down, grabs his ass. Squeezes. “Then I might blow you, if that’s what you want. Or you can fuck me, if you’d like that instead.”

Akira cannot believe this is happening to him.

“Don’t k-kiss me,” he manages, his voice coming out as a squeak. He turns his head right as Crow makes his move. “Only he can kiss me.”

Crow glares at him in a way that is just so Akechi. He huffs, rolls his eyes, then says: “fine. I can work with that.”

And with a single strong push he shoves Akira backward. Onto the bed. The _bed_.

Goro Akechi is straddling him now except he isn’t except he is and Akira is about to lose his goddamn mind because he’s so confused and turned on and upset and Crow’s ass is _on him_ and—

“Wait—!” Akira yelps when Crow reaches for the top of his pants. “No, stop!”

Crow does stop, has the nerve to look aggravated even though he was technically made for Akira. “Holy fucking shit. What now?”

“I don’t want you,” Akira says. He sits up on his elbows, says with a sort of conviction that he thinks would make Akechi proud. Or, perhaps would if Akira weren’t also currently under a fake version of Akechi that Akira accidentally conjured up so he could have sex with him.

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t want you,” Akira repeats, completely sure of himself now. Which is comforting, in a way. “I don’t want any of this—this isn’t making me happy. This would never make me happy. I want _him_.”

Crow glares down at him. Doesn’t move a muscle, not for a little while. Has the same look on his face that Akechi gets when Akira makes a particularly smart move in chess, or billiards, or darts, or whatever game of the day they’re playing.

Then he sighs. Rolls off of Akira. “Both of you are so difficult, you know that? Fine. But I’m only doing this because you’re in agreement.”

Crow walks to the wall opposite the bed, on the right side of the room. Akira sits up, watches, surreptitiously adjusts himself and tries not to think too hard about what he just gave up.

Crow gives him one last look—Akira’s favorite, the one that says _you’re so annoying and I definitely don’t like you at all_. Then he places a hand on the wall and the wall disappears.

“ _—OULD I EVER WANT YOU!?_ ”

Akira springs into action—jumps off the bed and runs toward the space where the wall had been. Where there’s now a full other room, a perfect mirror to Akira’s, bed and all. With another Goro Akechi, his helmet off just the same as Crow, straddling another Akira Kurusu.

Straddling him, yes. Screaming at him, also yes. Choking him, very much also yes.

“Akechi? Akechi!” Akira shouts, waving his arms. He registers Crow to his side, still there, probably huffing or rolling his eyes or something.

“ _YOU FAKE PIECE OF—_ ” Akechi stops. Snaps his head to the side. Looks between Akira and Crow like he’s readying himself for a fight. Doesn’t remove his hands from Akira’s counterpart’s throat.

Akira can’t help but feel a little disappointed—he really thought they’d moved past killing each other by now.

“Is it you?” Akechi asks.

Akira knocks on his own head. “Hope so,” he says, before realizing he probably should have come up with something cooler or more intelligent.

Akechi and Crow groan in surround sound. The Akira on the bed coughs miserably.

The sound seems to galvanize Akechi into action—he scrambles off the bed, in the process setting his Akira free, and heads straight for the door.

“Time’s not up yet,” Crow says.

“What would make me truly happy would be to get the fuck out of here,” Akechi immediately barks back.

“Liar,” Crow responds easily. Then he strides past Akira, past Akechi, over to what Akira decides he should probably refer to as “Joker” (for consistency) and pulls him up off the bed.

Joker smiles at Crow. Crow smiles at Joker. Brings a hand up to cradle his face. Joker leans into it. And it’s all very sweet, all doesn’t seem real, and Akira’s kind of dumbly watching without any thoughts in his brain, which is why he doesn’t realize what’s going to happen until a half-second too late.

“No—” Akira says.

“Wait—!” Akechi shouts.

Joker leans forward without a moment’s hesitation and kisses Crow.

Akira looks away so fast he thinks he might have snapped his neck. He can see out of the corner of his eye that Akechi did the same.

His heart is deafening in his ears.

He stares solidly in front of him, away from Crow and Joker, but unfortunately the only thing to look at is the empty bed in Akira’s side of the room, and Akira can still _hear them_.

His own voice murmurs something intelligible. Akechi’s voice says, “ _idiots_ ,” then chuckles in response. Akira’s face is so hot and so red that he’s pretty sure he could cook an egg on it if he wanted to. What the fuck is happening. How. Why.

“Fuck off!” Akechi turns and growls. “And stop—stop doing _that!_ With _him!_ ”

“Want me to take yours instead?” Crow taunts back. “No?” He pulls Joker toward him again and kisses him while still staring straight at Akechi, grabs Joker’s ass for good measure. That same hand was on Akira’s ass, just a few minutes ago.

Wait—is Akira jealous? Of himself?

The two of them are just… making out. Him and Akechi. Joker and Crow. Right in front of him. And Akechi.

Akira is frozen. Useless. Why is this happening to him? It’s hell all over again but an entirely different kind of hell.

Crow breaks away from Joker, saunters up to Akira like he owns the place. He does. “You should kiss him,” he wraps himself around Akira, hisses like a snake, right in Akira’s ear. Akira knows Crow is staring at Akechi, but he doesn’t dare look in the same direction. “He wants you to. I know he does.”

“He—” Akira tries.

“Akira~” Crow interrupts sweetly. “Do you think all these rooms come with beds?”

That gets him to look—turns his head in shock to find Joker, still the spitting image of himself, similarly close to Akechi. Joker’s saying something to him too, something too quiet for Akira to make out. He rests a hand on Akechi's shoulder and Akechi flinches.

But doesn’t push him away.

“Akechi,” Akira says, extricating himself from Crow’s hold. “We can go to the other side and ignore them.”

“No,” Akechi says absently, staring at Joker’s red-gloves hand still resting on his fucking shoulder like Joker owns him. _Akira’s_ Akechi. “Yes,” he says, just as vacantly.

“Akechi,” Akira says again, frustrated for eight thousand reasons.

“ _Akechi_ ,” Crow mocks. He steals Joker away and kisses him again right there, right next to Akechi. Licks into Joker’s mouth, tugs at Joker’s hair and Joker—he _moans_. A blatant, unabashed sound of pleasure.

Akira has never heard himself make a noise like that.

What exactly did Akechi wish for, when he wished for Akira?

Akechi watches for far too long to have plausible deniability before he finally snaps out of his trance. He snarls at nothing like a wild animal, avoids Akira and Crow and Joker entirely and stomps over to sit alone on his bed. He crosses his legs, then places both hands inconspicuously (conspicuously) over his lap.

Okay. Well.

Akira glances back at Joker and Crow—alternately muttering sweet nothings to each other and sucking face, like Akira and Akechi aren’t even there.

Well.

Well Akira can’t help but feel a little cheated. Which is gross. Akira is gross. But this whole thing is gross—and he was supposed to have an Akechi to himself, to mess around with or even just talk to (why didn’t he try talking?) and Akechi was supposed to have the same, apparently, but of course the both of them are so completely dysfunctional that they couldn’t let themselves have even that.

This isn’t raising someone from the dead. It isn’t solving world hunger. It’s just the two of them, with absolutely nothing stopping them besides themselves. Clearly, from how hard Crow and Joker are going at it now.

Shit, that’s really annoyingly hot.

Akira shoves his hands in his pockets. Stalks his way towards Akechi. Sits down next to him.

“Don’t talk to me,” Akechi says.

Akira ignores him. “Are you alright?”

“Just fine, _thanks_.”

Akechi pointedly looks away from him. Akira fiddles with one of his curls. Joker whimpers what Akira fucking swears sounds like “ _Goro_ ” across the room.

“Do you—”

“Say another word and I’ll kill everything in this room including you,” Akechi snaps.

That’s about what he expected. Akira heaves a sigh, checks both of their doors. 00:44:32. Just barely a quarter of their time here has passed. Yikes.

Crow and Joker are still being disgusting across the room. Joker’s jacket is hanging off him, with Crow worshipping his arms in a way Akira has definitely never dreamed about and will definitely not haunt him until he dies an early death from the strangest and most severe case of blue balls in history.

They look happy.

  
  
  


_A ring of light finally appeared above him. Moved up and down Akira’s body like it really was scanning him._

_The light disappeared after a few moments and a computerized voice announced: “happiness comes from talking openly and honestly about your feelings.”_

  
  
  


“That’s what I want,” Akira admits quietly, choosing his words carefully because he likely won’t have many. “You’re what I want.”

Akechi doesn’t move.

“I’m what you want… how can you say that so easily?” he asks.

Akira hears Joker across the room laugh: “ _are they seriously talking right now?_ ” which is honestly a welcome change from all the other embarrassing noises he’s been making.

“It’s the truth,” Akira says firmly, ignoring their doppelgängers. He watches as Akechi’s expression slowly transforms into something close to despair. “I thought you were done running.”

They continue to firmly ignore, best they can, how Crow snarls and backs Joker up against a wall with a loud _bang!_ Akechi’s cheeks flush a shade of crimson Akira has never seen before. 

“I’m not _running_ ,” he hisses. “It’s not—you’re—you’re so stupid, you don’t even realize—we can’t—” Akechi tries to do that thing where he adjusts his gloves to give himself time to think but forgets they’re in the Metaverse, ends up awkwardly poking at his gauntlets instead. “I can’t believe I have to argue this.”

“You’re not doing a very good job.”

Akechi finally looks at him. Glares, really. Akira chances a smile.

“You don’t want this. I’ll ruin you.”

“Mhm,” Akira hums. Raises his eyebrows.

Akechi looks furious, looks livid, looks just same as the first time he said—

“I hate you,” Akechi says immediately. “I hate you so fucking much,” and then he grabs Akira by the back of the head and he kisses him.

Akira has barely one second to be surprised before Akechi’s tongue is in his mouth. Barely another before Akechi’s claws are stripping Akira of his jacket. And Akira decides that the only worthy mission in his life is to make sure he keeps up with Goro Akechi.

But hadn’t he already figured that out?

Akechi whips Akira’s jacket across the room like it personally offended him—right in the direction of Crow and Joker, to Akira’s great amusement—and Akira takes the opportunity to heave Akechi fully backward onto the bed and climb on top of him. He runs his hands up and down Akechi’s body, everywhere and anywhere he can reach, listens in heaven to Akechi’s stuttering, abortive little gasps because Akira is smarter than he looks (probably) and he knows exactly why Akechi flinched away from his touch yesterday.

That, and he’s also trying to find any buttons or clasps to get Akechi’s bodysuit off of him, because Akechi nearly has Akira’s vest open and is winning once again.

“Use your knife,” Akechi’s voice says—from his side, instead of the man spread out below him.

Oh. Right. The other two. The two of them. They’re still here.

Joker climbs onto the bed beside Akechi—shirtless, with the buttons on his trousers undone, effortlessly attractive in a way that makes Akira jealous and confused and jealous again—and kisses Akechi. Akechi whines, buries his hands in Joker’s hair like he had with Akira, kisses back enthusiastically. Oh.

Akira is starting to realize he might be getting more than he bargained for.

“The knife, Akira.”

“I could cut him,” Akira manages to tell Crow—somehow, because his mouth is completely dry and he has no blood in his head.

“Mm,” Crow chuckles, helps Akira out of his vest. “He wouldn’t mind that.”

“How…” Akira trails off because Joker has moved to mouth and suck at Akechi’s neck and Akechi is staring up at the ceiling like he’s seen the face of god. “How do you know?”

“I am him,” Crow cups Akira’s face in his hands, turns his head to face him directly. “And he is me.” Crow says in Akechi’s voice, stares as intensely at him as Akechi does, and then kisses Akira just like Akechi did.

There’s a reason why Akechi was initially reluctant. Why Akira’s heart clenches painfully every time he thinks of their deadline. There’s something buried in all this—something Akira should have figured out the moment he saw that Goro Akechi was his heart’s deepest desire.

But he can’t seem to care.

Crow places the hilt of Akira’s knife in his hand—clever of him, managing to extract it from him without Akira noticing. Akechi and Joker are really going at it now, Akechi’s hand firmly inside Joker’s open trousers, working him as he pants against Joker’s open mouth. It’s a sight that makes Akira slightly more turned on than jealous which is… probably good. Good enough. He doubts there’s a handbook for this sort of situation.

But Crow is definitely more the jealous type. He leaves Akira, crawls onto the bed as well and forcefully turns Joker’s attention back to him.

Akechi whines.

“Needy,” Akira teases, pushing himself forward to peck him on the lips.

“Hurry up.”

Their doppelgängers are stripping each other further up the bed, Joker running his hands up and down Crow’s smooth-looking skin as Crow shivers and keens and holy shit yes he needs to hurry.

Akira slices open one of the belts holding Akechi’s bodysuit on, too impatient to bother unbuckling it, and makes quick work of the rest. Then starts on the suit itself—a little nick near Akechi’s collarbone does the job, cut just deep enough for red to well up underneath.

Because Crow said it would be okay.

And because Akira thought pressing his mouth against the shallow wound and licking it would be sexy.

And because he’s going a little crazy.

Akira gets just enough time to grasp the two split sides of Akechi’s bodysuit and rip it open, completely in half, before Akechi decides he’s had enough and bodily flips them over.

He briefly mourns the loss of his advantage, but it’s difficult to care who’s winning or who’s winning even more with a half-naked Goro Akechi above him, attacking his mouth like he’s actually trying to eat Akira.

He gets lost in it for a while—the feeling of Akechi’s bare skin, the warmth of him, the taste of him. The most beautiful man in the world has been his rival for months so Akira thinks it’s reasonable to indulge. He’s so lost that he’s almost sure that it’s his voice he can hear, gasping and moaning, until he looks to his side and finds Crow swallowing Joker’s cock.

“Oh _god_ ,” Akira says, probably.

“Do you like that?” Akechi asks, hauntingly familiar manic tones creeping into his voice. “Do you want me to do that? I can—do you want to fuck me? What do you want?”

It’s cute. Reminds him of Crow at the start of all this, so eager to please. Crow might be even more Akechi than Akira thought.

“Yes,” Akira says.

Akechi still manages to look annoyed with him, which is cute too. Even half-naked next to another version of himself sucking another version of Akira’s cock, Goro Akechi is Goro Akechi. “Yes to _what?_ ” he asks.

Akira doesn’t answer. He knows he doesn’t have to. Not with words, at least.

Instead he leads Akechi to sit at the edge of the bed. Goro Akechi is an intelligent guy—at least most of the time—so Akira is sure he can deduce Akira’s intentions for himself. Especially after he strips off the rest of his clothes and kneels.

Akechi stares down at him, ready and waiting, every bit as regal as his Prince moniker would imply. Then quickly, and to Akira’s great delight, loses all composure when Akira takes him into his mouth.

“Ah—Akira—”

Distantly, again, Akira thinks he deserved a bit of warning that today would be the day that he finally sucks Goro Akechi’s cock.

Akechi himself is more magnificent than Akira could have imagined. The taste of skin, sweat, and dripping sweetness on his tongue isn’t anything surprising, no—but Akechi’s heaving chest, his hands trembling where they’re fisted in the sheets of the bed, his already well-bitten bottom lip, his face unmistakably contorted in pleasure—that’s the real treasure.

Akira reaches around, gives Akechi’s perfect ass a good squeeze. He’s a multitasker, he can indulge himself a little too.

To Akira’s great delight, it doesn’t take long for his little show to attract an audience. Joker and Crow appear behind Akechi to watch—Crow kissing Akechi’s nape, Joker combing his fingers through Akechi’s hair and crooning softly: “ _—echi… good for him… so badly, he always has…_ ”

“How d-do you—know?” Akechi whispers in response, but not quietly enough to hide from Akira.

“I am him, and he is me.”

Greedy Crow turns Akechi’s attention on himself, licks into his mouth and Akira is certain he’s in heaven now, knows for sure that those embarrassing moans are coming from him this time as he draws Akechi deeper into his throat, helplessly palms himself for any relief.

Joker places Akechi’s hand in Akira’s hair, directs him quietly to pull it, and Akira nearly loses his mind, almost comes right there.

“Akechi,” he rasps, staring up at his three audience members with something a little too close to desperation. He wipes the spit from around his sore mouth with the back of his hand. “Akechi, fuck me.”

And that should have been that, Akira thinks. A winning argument from a frankly brilliant mind. But somehow Akira propped up against Crow’s chest with Joker between his legs. Akechi is off to the side on his own, idly stroking himself and watching with a vicious hunger in his eyes, which makes him Akira’s top suspect.

He wonders, while Joker starts fingering him open, if this counts as masturbation. Crow pets his hair gently.

“Akechi,” he whines, because this foreplay has lasted for hours and years and he just wants to get fucked. Joker carefully adds a second finger, stares at him with an unnerving intensity, and Akira is pretty sure this is going to mess him up forever. “ _Akechi_.”

“Sorry,” Joker says—which is weird, hearing his own voice apologizing to him. “I only know as much about this as you do.”

“Gorgeous,” Crow hums, wipes some sweat from Akira’s face. “Keep going.”

“ _Wait_ ,” Akechi calls out. “No, I’m doing it.” He grabs Joker, pulls him off and tosses him carelessly to the side. Akira’s mind, ever so helpful, conjures up the memory of Akechi furiously straddling and choking Joker earlier.

Akechi towers over him, all power and confidence even now. “You wanted this,” he says, and starts working Akira open himself—harder, deeper, more impatiently than Joker had. “You asked for this. Rushing in without a plan, without a thought for the future, without thinking at all. You wanted this,” he repeats, almost like he can’t believe it. “You did this, and now I’m going to ruin you for anyone else, understand?”

Akira nods frantically, held between two Akechi’s, caught and stolen.

“After we leave this room, after we tear down this Palace and this reality—you won’t be able to think of anyone but me, and it will be _your fault_.”

“You’re stupid,” Akira gasps, “if you thought you didn’t already have me.”

He stares up at Crow—Joker and Crow above him now, together, the way they were meant to be.

The way they will be, forever.

“Call him by his given name,” Crow leans down and whispers, “He’ll never ask you to, but he’d like it.”

“Uh— _ah_ ,” electricity pulses through him, Akira arches up off the bed. Akechi chuckles, victorious. “G- _Goro,_ ” Akira calls out, testing the name on his tongue.

Akechi stops.

Then surges forward, devours him inelegantly, with more teeth than anything else. Releases Akira. Does the same to Joker. Tosses Joker to the side like he’s nothing, like he’s trash.

“Fuck him,” Goro orders himself, pointing to the copy of Akira he’d just discarded. “Show him who he belongs to.” He grabs Akira’s face and turns it to the side where, enviably, it looks as though his counterpart is about to be railed without nearly enough preparation. “You’re going to watch,” Goro says as Crow maneuvers Joker onto his hands and knees. “And then I’m going to fuck you.”

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Akira says.

“You’re wrong.”

“ _Ah—!_ ” Joker cries out, pitches forward as Crow thrusts into him. “Goro, _Goro_ ,” he sobs.

Akira can’t tear his eyes away.

The wet slaps of Crow’s hips against Joker’s ass are obscene, disgusting, perfect. Crow is taking care of him so well, Joker moaning praise and encouragement into the bed through his tears.

This is them, in a world where they could allow themselves to be happy. Where the only change is Akira let himself want Goro, and Goro let himself want Akira.

So that—that copy of himself, melting into the bed, drooling and panting like a dog—would that really be him? Is that already him?

Goro slides a third finger inside him, mouths at Akira’s cock, achingly hard and heavy against his stomach. Akira just lays there, shakes and trembles, overwhelmed. Watches, entranced, as Crow reaches under Joker, pumps him until he comes, then holds him down by the back of his neck and jackhammers into him so hard the entire bed shakes.

Joker screams.

When Crow finishes it’s with the hottest, quietest little moan Akira’s ever heard. He pulls out, stares for a moment as cum drips out of Joker’s hole—then releases his hold on Joker’s hips and watches with a satisfied expression as he collapses completely down onto the bed like a puppet with cut strings.

Akira’s heart rate skyrockets.

That’s his future.

Goro smirks at him from between his legs. No doubt thinking the exact same thing. Which, Akira decides, is his cue to do something unexpected.

“I’m not going to be that easy,” Akira announces. He kicks Goro backward, laughs at his adorable little yelp of surprise and climbs on top of him.

“Ah—?” Goro cries out, struggles a little, then thrusts up helplessly as Akira spreads his hands wide across Goro’s chest, drags his ass against his cock. “Wh—Akira?”

“Yes, Goro?” Akira teases, wiggles a bit more.

“Are you going to—” Goro blinks up at the ceiling. “Are you going to fucking _do something?_ ”

“Needy,” Akira says, because it bears repeating. Still, he takes hold of Goro’s cock, lines himself up, and slowly, achingly, _finally_ , brings Goro inside of him.

Again, Akira’s imagination failed him here. Late nights with his hand on his cock, working himself raw and thinking desperately of Goro’s heat between his legs, his solid form below him, the fullness—a stinging, raw, pleasurable sort of pain filling him up.

He rocks forward—and could never have dreamt up Goro’s eyes shutting tight as if he were in pain, his mouth dropping open, his hands coming to Akira’s waist, then fluttering down to cover the backs of his hands, then back to his waist—indecisive. Overwhelmed. Beautiful.

More.

Akira rocks again, forward and back, again and again, picks up his pace. Each slide of the cock inside him teasing him in all the right places, opening him further, giving unimaginable pleasure to Goro— _Goro_ , Goro who is melting back into the bed now, mindlessly keening and panting—just like Joker, back when Crow was fucking him.

Joker appears beside Akira, tangles his fingers in his hair, murmurs softly in his ear: “ _say his name._ ”

“Goro, Goro—”

“ _Tell him how good he’s making you feel._ ”

“So—good,” Akira whimpers. He kisses Joker as he rocks his hips, determined to put on the best possible show for Goro. There are hands on him, mouths on him, a spotlight shining down on him and Akira has never felt so alive. “Goro—Goro.”

“Akira,” Goro responds—from his side instead of beneath him. Akira turns to his other side to kiss Crow and—

“No!” Goro howls. He surges forward, knocks Crow away and pins Akira back on the bed. He fucks into him harder, faster—holds Akira in place with his hands wrapped around his neck. “Mine! _Mine!_ Say my name again!”

“ _Go-ro_ ,” Akira chokes out, voice contorted from his constricted throat, from Goro’s relentless thrusts pushing violently him back and forth on the bed.

“Who do you belong to!?

“You, I… be-long to you—”

“Akira—” Crow says.

“Shut up!” Goro snaps again. “He’s mine!”

“And you’re—mine,” Akira smiles, wild and free despite Goro Akechi’s fingers at his throat. Because of Goro Akechi’s fingers at his throat. “You… belong… to me.”

“Ah— _god—Aki-ra!_ ” Goro falls forward, stutters and groans pathetically into Akira’s ear.

And Akira’s body decides that’s all he needs to finally fall over the edge with him.

  
  
  


_“Because I made you a promise to fix the world and then you died!”_

_“I didn’t die,” Akechi said._

_“Are—” the words caught in Akira’s throat, habit and fear tamping them down but if he didn’t speak he would fail, he would never get out of there._

_He couldn’t fail again. He knew the consequences of failure now._

_Akira swallowed, glanced at the red door, didn’t look at Akechi when he asked: “are you sure?”_

The timer above the door reads 00:00:00.

Akira wonders how long it’s been that way.

Crow and Joker are gone. Maybe they vanished because their time here is up. Maybe because they’ve been made redundant. Akira doesn’t know.

He’s kind of going to miss them.

Akira tangles his fingers in Goro’s hair, lets the strands slide and catch between them. Goro is laying beside him—still naked, still catching his breath. Still staring at Akira.

This room was much better than the other one, Akira decides. A thousand, million times better.

The others are probably waiting for them.

Goro shifts, sits up along with Akira. “I…” he trails off. Seems distant in a way he shouldn’t be, after everything. “I shouldn’t have—I got carried away.”

“Me too,” Akira grins. He scoots forward, pulls Goro into a lazy kiss. He likes how sweaty Goro is—how honest he looks, with his concealer wiped off and his hair messed up. “You should come to Leblanc tonight.”

“I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.”

“You keep saying that.”

Goro stares at him like Akira has two heads so Akira knows he did something right.

“No,” he sighs. “I’m not touching that horrible excuse for a mattress.” He stands up from the bed. Flames consume him and Goro Akechi stands masked again. Pristine and perfect. “I’ll text you my address when we get out of this godforsaken place.”

Oh. Oh shit.

Akira follows, stands up too fast on wobbly feet. He wills his suit back on and— _foosh_. There it is. Handy trick.

Still, he shifts uncomfortably, tries to be discreet about it. Being clothed doesn’t… completely erase all the evidence of their encounter together.

“Yeah, okay,” Akira coughs behind his fist, wills himself to be cool again. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

Goro nods. Akira offers one last reassuring smile, which Goro doesn’t return. And, finally, they walk out the door.

As soon as Akira spots the Thieves his mind switches back into leader mode—he counts them off with relief, finds all of them safe and accounted for. And he does feel a little bad that, for an hour or so, he completely and entirely forgot about them.

Akira knows what it’s like to be on the other side of that.

“Finally!” Morgana shouts, bounds over to them.

“Joker! Crow!”

“Oh, thank god he’s not dead,” Makoto exclaims, which—come on, it’s a little extreme to think he might be dead.

“You guys took forever!”

“What happened in there?”

“Wait—” Morgana stops when he gets close to them, looks between Akira and Goro. “How were you both in the same room?”


End file.
